


Sinful

by stravaganza



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU - Sins, Alternate Universe, M/M, Seven Deadly Sins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-28
Updated: 2012-07-28
Packaged: 2017-11-10 22:11:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stravaganza/pseuds/stravaganza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this universe, every person is born with a mark on the back of their dominant hand and on the back of their neck. That mark stands for the sin they will be compelled to commit (i.e. Irene’s is lust, Mycroft’s gluttony, etc.).<br/>It is very rare when a person is born without any mark, and those people have always been believed to be able to delete other's sins (in the past that implied sacrificing them, drinking their blood, and such, but of course that isn’t going to happen in the 21th century).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Colour and symbols legend:  
> White Crown = Pride  
> Red Heart = Lust  
> Yellow Coin = Greed  
> Blue Apple = Glutton  
> Black Dagger = Wrath  
> Violet Line = Sloth  
> Green Snake = Envy

Since the moment he was born, it was clear to everybody that Sherlock Holmes would have been special someway. His pale skin, same as his mother, had no traces of marks anywhere. Not a gold coin like his father’s, not a red heart like his mother’s or a blue apple like his brother.

Only further examinations showed that, on his small hand, was a pearly white crown, thin like an impossible scar on the newborn’s skin. This only meant that they had to expect big things from him. Prideful people were rare, and even more were the ones that had reasons to be proud of themselves, but with the Holmes' genes he was expected to be as great as the rest of his family's members.

Though, he had never felt compelled to be prideful: he saw no point in that, and he thought that the rest of the world was stupid to believe that. Even if it had been going on for centuries, in his opinion everyone just acted as they pleased anyways, influenced by that ridiculous “mark of destiny”.

Since they were young, they thought that they had to act as they were told by that. If they had a violet line on their neck, they felt compelled to be lazy. If there was a black dagger, they used to be violent people. Eventually, time and school taught them how to behave and not to let these mark run their lives, even if after all these were what decided what was going to be of them, in most cases.

Violent people ended up as soldiers, greedy people as businessmen and businesswomen, and so on. It wasn’t a rule, of course, but the mark on your hand could determine everything.

Sherlock wanted to escape from it all, as Mycroft ignored his gluttony to become a politician. Well, that was another kind of hunger, the one for power, but still it went against usual convention.

He managed to escape it inventing his own job, becoming a consulting detective, understanding why so many of Scotland Yard’s men had green, envy snakes on their skins.

Still, that didn’t trigger his pride. Or, to better say, he would ignore it. He knew he was superior, and that was enough.

But soon, the feeling of being the one and only consulting detective in the world, the envy and angered glares he received daily, in the end, made it. He started to feel more and more prideful, acted even more smugly than he used to, and made fun of other people more often.

He laughed at Anderson and Donovan’s envy, he mocked Lestrade’s violet sloth and he judged Molly’s red heart. Not a sign of romance, anyway.

After two years, no one would want to be around him anymore, with a few reluctant exceptions.

But he didn’t care, he would never care, not until he had himself and his intellect. He didn’t need anyone else. And, even if he did, his pride wouldn’t let him admit it. He’d die before admitting something like that. And, after all, the marks stated the fate of their owner.

He would never put his pride aside, for nothing in the world. That would be his end.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock stared at the man in front of him, leaning on his cane the slightest bit as he tried to still look official. A soldier. Who studied there, so a doctor. Just back from service, it seemed.

Mike Stamford sat on a stool in the laboratory, smiling to himself, the blue apple on his hand tainted white. He was proud of what he was doing, apparently.

Yes, those marks betray emotions as well. The mark on the hand, the dominant one usually, changes colour as emotions changed. No one was linked to only one sin, everyone could commit more than one. Sherlock was no exception.

He remembered all too well the black that drenched his white crown when he fought or felt anger rise in him, or more often the violet that tainted it with laziness. He had never seen red on it, nor the yellow of greed. He wasn’t a sinful person, not after his pride had triggered so much. Not after he had raised himself above everyone else, starting to feel superior even for the mere way he breathed.

But the more he studied the soldier in front of him, the more surprised he got. He deduced that he was left handed, as the right one presented no mark, but when he asked for a telephone and he showed him clearly his left hand…

“You have no mark?” he asked, raising his eyes on him, with an almost new emotion in them: wonder.

John flinched under that gaze, but nodded. “Yes. I was born without it. At school I was a bit of an outcast at first, but then… Well, I’m glad my parents didn’t decide to sell me to some psychopath that had offered them money!” he said, shrugging.

Sherlock observed him some more before using his phone as he needed it and leaving the laboratory, telling John to meet him the next morning.

That night, the detective didn’t sleep. He had just met someone that was better than himself, as he had no sins in his destiny. That, he could not accept. He looked at his hand, crown now green as grass in envy, and cursed under his breath.

He decided that he would after all accept him as a flatmate, to study him.

—-

After months of living together, Sherlock had decided to gave up what was useless research in order to concentrate all his efforts on the man he had met.

A prideful being, like himself, but with a coal black crown on his hand. Jim Moriarty.

Violent individual, full of himself and as genius as Sherlock, as expected. Proud for a good reason… They were alike. Too much, perhaps, and Sherlock had stopped sleeping, eating, living to focus on this case.

He had noticed that, ever since John was in his life, the mark on his hand tended to get pink-ish every now and then, but he hadn’t the time to think about something so silly. He had to keep his name high, to be Sherlock Holmes, the greatest mind of the century!

That, until one day John had enough of it. He stood up from his armchair, took Sherlock’s wrist and dragged him to Angelo’s, almost forcing him to eat.

“You can’t keep going like this. If you do, you’ll be nothing more than a proud bunch of bones, soon.” he lectured him.

Had it been anyone else, from his mother to Lestrade, he wouldn’t have listened to it. Why should he? He was better than John, he didn’t have to listen to him! But then, he remembered that he was /not/, that John wasn’t sinful like he was. And so he kept on eating and listening, trying to pay attention as his brain slithered away, back to his research about unmarked people.

Books told the strangest stories. Myths, legends and such all agreed that to be freed of all their sins, a person needed to drink the blood of a pure one, someone who was born without any sign. He remembered what John had said, about some psychopath wanting to buy him from his parents, but he refused to believe that was the reason. Luckily, Moriarty thought the same, otherwise John would be dead by now. His hand turned black at the mere thought.

“Sherlock, don’t you dare get angry at me for caring!” the doctor said, voice full of rage, looking at his friend who blinked back at him clueless.

“Sorry, my thoughts sort of drifted away. I got distracted…” he murmured, apologetically.

This seemed to calm John. “Well, since you never apologize and you sound almost sincere… That’s fine, this time. But you’ll have to follow my medical advice, you know?” he said, smiling friendly at him.

The detective reflected about this for a moment. It was true, he never apologized. Last time he did, meaning it, he was still a child probably. He didn’t even remember it properly!

He glanced at the mark on his hand, once again at that strange tint of pink that made it look less like a scar and more like a fresh wound.

—-

Some legends, claimed that losing ones mark would mean to die soon, and Sherlock had never heard of anything more ridiculous.

If the methods listed on the books he had found even worked, death wouldn’t follow them. Not directly, at least, not consequentially. If someone decided to kill theirself, while pure, it was their choice. If they died of an accident, that was a fatality.

But well, none of those methods ever worked. He knew people who tried them, all, and were still sinful. He felt the need to protect John from them, reminding him to hide his neck and hand when they worked on some case, afraid that someone might steal him away. And they tried, but he hadn’t joined the army to have picnics in Afghanistan after all.

So, he was utterly certain that none of these archaic methods worked.

And yet, his mark had been changing since he met John. He decided to ignore it. As long as he could, at least.

Because in the end, his mark disappeared. He had fought against his sin, thanks to John. Was that it? Was it because he was more humble, now, that his hand didn’t present a white crown anymore?

He hoped it were just his eyes tricking him, because otherwise the legends would be true.

He hoped he couldn’t see it anymore for the tears, not because it was gone.

He really hoped so, as he murmured in his mobile: “Goodbye, John.”

And then he jumped.  
And fell.  
And the air seemed to wash away his sin, as he gave up his pride to save his friend.

But John didn’t notice that, as he held his wrist between his fingers, checking for his pulse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important, in case it wasn't clear: the mark on the hand can change of colour, influenced by the mood of the person. The one on the neck is permanent.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Shernanigans Party on tumblr.  
> I plan to continue with other, random chapters, whenever I'm inspired.
> 
> Please, consider buying me a coffee on [my ko-fi page](http://ko-fi.com/stravaganza)! I'd really appreciate your support!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Sinful - Book Cover](https://archiveofourown.org/works/498143) by [stravaganza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stravaganza/pseuds/stravaganza)




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